Studies of a Schnee
by Blue Seidr
Summary: Drabble series, irregular updates. A series of studies on the youngest Schnee.
1. Collection 1 - Anger, Masks

**Anger**

People seemed to be under the impression that anger was a warm emotion; that it boiled and churned one's blood, lit a fire in one's stomach, and burned and scorched one's heart. People thought anger was raised voices, the heat of another's body in a fight, warm salty tears dripping down cheeks. For them, anger was warm.

Not for him. To him, anger was the cold stone that dropped in his gut when both his sisters left him behind to rot. To him, anger was the dull pain between his ribs when his father locked him in his room to practice on frozen ivories for hours on end. To him, anger was the wave of frigid water that drenched him when his mother downed glass after glass of ice wine, and left him alone while she sought her own escape.

Anger was the chill of his father's blue and white manor that he roamed silently, with marble tiles that echoed almost painfully loud and dozens of large windows that leaked in the artic air. Anger was the feeling of his fathers cold fingers wrapping around his wrists, striking against his cheek, yanking on his hair. Anger was the shards of glass in his hands when he stared at his broken reflection, and the sting of antibiotics on his cuts.

Anger was not warm in him. Anger was cold. It did not build and burn inside him or fuel his actions with bursts of energy. Anger crept over him, sluggish and slowly but surely, and it clutched at his soul and drug it down to drown. Anger was frigid and frozen, and damn it if it wasn't freezing him from the inside out.

 **Masks**

Winter had her strategic mind, Weiss had her voice, and they both shared a talent for glyphs and swordsmanship. But he? He could make masks.

How easy was it for him to shape and mold his expression to display just the right emotion? To pitch his voice to add that genuine tone of interest or respect or whatever the occasion called for? A few second was all it took to sculpt the perfect mask to wear, to show his audience exactly what he wanted them to see (exactly what they wanted to see from him).

He could even mask his body, holding himself and posing his limbs in ways to fool anyone that watched his movements. His body was a puppet that he had perfect control over, and he used that to his great advantage.

Unlike his sisters, he didn't flaunt his talents blatantly for everyone to see. He was far more subtle in his methods. Crafting an attentive look in a boring class, feigning total agreement in a meeting with his father, projecting indifference when shouts of protesters hurled insults at his personage. Everything was seamlessly applied so that no one would know there was anything but truth there, so that no one could see through the cracks. So that _he_ could not see through the cracks.

Because although he may not show off his skills like his sisters did theirs, he most certainly used them far more often. He had learned that if he wanted to survive in the house, he could never show his real feelings. Every nod of agreement saved him a furious shout; every expression of submission saved him a slap; every refusal to show any hint of rebellion spared him a day locked in his room.

But any slip? Any sign that he wasn't going to fall in line as his daddy's perfect little boy?

Well, he had learned to cast his masks early on. It wasn't too much harder to craft them around bruises and limps.


	2. Collection 2 - Snow, Waltz, Music

**Snow**

Snow, he thought, was such a simple thing to stand for so many others.

There was, of course, the obvious ones. The kingdom of Atlas was swathed in the white dressing 10 months out of the year (and plagued by ice storms the other 2). A single snowflake served as the symbol for his father's company, which was so prominent and closely tied with the tundra of Atlas that its emblem had almost become synonymous with the kingdom.

Beyond the company itself, the snowflake represented the Schnee's power, their hereditary semblance of glyphs. How many times had he seen the intricate glowing snowflake stretch across the floor, summoning fearsome ethereal Grimm or speeding up the very nature of time?

But even without that connection to his home, his family, and the powerhouse that linked the two, snow meant so much more on its own.

Snow was supposed to be white and pure, soft and beautiful in its freedom from blemishes. But one touch, one foot to the virgin landscape, and it was irreversible changed, marked and damaged, no longer elegant once it had been disturbed. When it fell in the cities, in the refineries, and at the dust mines, it did not leave the ground pure. The cities trampled the snow with thousands of feet and turned it to slush with its heat. The refineries puffed black smoke up into the clouds, and streaked the land with soot, sawdust, and dirty tracks. The dust mines colored the snow all sorts of hues with its discards; blue and red and yellow and green until it all bleed together into an ugly brown sludge.

Despite being herald across the kingdoms as a symbol of the power of his family and the strength of his kingdom, he knew that snow was not strong. Snow was not _strong_ , it was not _pure,_ it was not _innocent_ , or at least if it had ever been, it did not stay that way for long.

The Schnee family was snow. Once upon a time, perhaps, they had been pure. Good people working to make an honest living. But then they were invaded, walked upon and stepped on by an outsider that dared to claim the land for himself. And what could they do but watch as their name, their legacy, was tarnished and dirtied and turned into that sludge that clogged the city drains?

He was snow. He had been trampled. Streaked with soot like the landscape of Atlas, then colored with bright shades in an attempt to make him look elegant once more. It didn't work, though. He simply bled and blurred the lines until nothing was left but cold brown slush.

 **Waltz**

Since he had been able to walk, he had been taught lessons in dance. Even as the youngest, it was expected that he attend the galas and functions that the company hosted, if only to maintain the image of perfect breeding that his father wished to project. As many of these event had some form of schmoozing disguised as ballroom dancing, it was imperative that he was able to participate without embarrassing the family name. He had learned several styles, foxtrot and quick step and everything in between. Waltz, though, had to be his favorite.

There was something oddly intimate about this dance, something more that the others lacked. Slower than the others, each partner sharing the same space and moving in perfect tandem. Voices spoken in whispers, heard only by the other over the elegant music. Fabric of dresses and skirts twirling like flower petals, the graceful steps and slides of the leader of the pair, partners moving in their own little world, yet never meeting any of the other pairs except in brief flashes of exchanges, performed seamlessly in mere seconds.

It was a beautiful thing to witness, 20 or so pairs moving on the floor in sync with their partners and the others around them, almost hypnotizing in a manner of speaking. That wasn't to say that there was not beauty in the other dances often performed at the balls, but the waltz had its own air to it; it was no wonder it was considered to be romantic in popular media.

He had only been attending balls since he was ten, and only been asked to participate since he had reached thirteen, but he had found that he enjoyed the dance far more when not being forced to pair with his tutor or Weiss. There was something very mechanical about practicing with a teacher, and while Weiss was willing to dance when the situation called for, he knew it was not her favorite activity. However, dancing with an unfamiliar girl whose family was trying to make nice with his own, and simply enjoying the music and the rhythm of movement, it is the closest he has ever been to being free.

Nothing mattered but the steps and the beat, falling in with the 3/4 time, gliding across the room in a swirl of fabric and color. It was impossible to remember anything outside of the flow of the music, unimaginable that anything could possibly stop this communication of gestures and notes. It was empowering in an odd way that he could not even begin to put into words. Even though he knew that in a few moments it would cease and mean absolutely nothing any longer, he couldn't help but get swept away in the waves of music and flourishes.

 **Music**

According to Weiss (and the old sheet music that he had found in the long abandoned bedroom), his eldest sister used to play the cello. Where that cello had gone, he wasn't sure, as he had never come across it in all his explorations of the house, but he found it hard to imagine that she had taken it with her, so he was forced to the conclusion that the poor instrument had met his father's wrath.

Weiss herself had never learned an instrument. She had once been forced to attempt the violin, but her musical concentration soon turned to singing when Father finally allowed her to and realized she would be far more proficient with her voice then she ever would on an instrument.

As for him? Well, to maintain their family's image of having well-groomed and cultured children, he was taught to play the piano. Twice a week every week for as long as he could remember, he was sat on the cold metal piano bench, his hands were placed on freezing slender ivories, and he was taught how to play.

His feelings on the piano tended to vary widely depending on when in his life you asked him. At first, when he was beginning to learn how all the keys worked and how he could create different sounds depended on which and how many he pressed, he was rather indifferent to the looming instrument. It was simply another chore to do, something he had to get through to please his father, like his lessons with his tutors and his homework. He sat and listened and parroted back what his teacher said, fumbling through the keys when the teacher asked him to, then moved on to the next task in his day. Rinse and repeat.

Later, though, when he was maybe 8 or 9 or so, there was a moment when he was banging on the white and black keys, doing his best to sort his way through the messy back notes on the paper in front of him when suddenly, he heard it. A hint of the melody he was supposed to be producing came from the keys, reverberating in the chest of the piano and around the room. It shook him, and he hit the keys again, more preciously this time, more conscious in the placements of his fingers. There it was again, the song he was meant to be playing, coming forth at his commands and echoing beautifully through the room and through his ears. He swept the pages of his songbook back the first page and began again, slowly working his way more carefully through the songs, savoring each correct note and the music he was creating with his own two hands, falling slowly in love with the majesty of the piano and music itself.

Soon, when his skill at playing a few basic songs had become passable, his father set him up to play accompanying to Weiss's singing. They had performed at a few charity events when they were young, as a way for his father to show off to the elitists of Atlas the skill with which he had corralled and tamed his younger two children (hopefully drawing thoughts away from the pesky former heiress in the process).

It was around then that it occurred to him that the piano was not simply to culture him, or a respectable pastime his father had introduced him to. It was another way for his father to control him. He played when his father told him, what his father told him to, and how long his father told him to. Much like everything else in his life, it was not something he did of his own choosing; it was another hoop his father had placed in front of him and told him to jump through. Take lessons in etiquette and history, pretend to be the perfect little child at the events he was taken to, and perform songs on the piano. The piano was not the freedom to express that he may have once thought it when he began to pursue it with real passion. It was an expression of the shackles his father placed on his wrist, of the confines of his own emotions.

It was much the same for Weiss. She once did confess to him, back when they had enough of a bond to confess things to one another, that she sometimes felt like the songbirds in the menagerie out in the gardens. Confined in a cage and forced to sing on cue. They used to be quite a pair, he thinks at some times when his fingers dance along the keys he is still made to bring to life day after day, even though his performance days are far behind him. Two figurines in a music box, he can compare themselves to, that only play when the box is opened and their keys are wound up. It is only with the guidance of their higher power that they make their beautiful music. They may not do so once their father no longer wills it, no longer gives them music to use. Made to play through the same music, the same tones of false cheer and poise over and over again, until finally the little keys ran smooth and could no longer make any noise at all.

He felt that now, when he was told to practice the piano. The keys felt worn smooth by his touch, completely rutted into a beaten path rarely deviated from. Even though that must have been a figment of his imagination, merely a comparison of how he felt to the nature of the songs he played, it was something that no less seemed like fact every time he placed a new booklet of music on the stand and began to pound on ice-cold ivories. It was his imagination that made it feel like his hands were glued to the same set of notes to be played over and over again. It was his imagination that caused the keys to squeak with disuse every time he dared play a chord or melody that was not on his papers. It was his imagination that every song his father gave him sounded the same, and that it was only when he dared to play something of his own invention that he could hear beauty in the calamity.


	3. Collection 3 - Cages, Mother

**Cage** **s**

He's walking through the garden, boots tip-tapping against cinderblock diamonds that make up the white-and-gray checkerboard path that snakes through the trees and bushes and flowers. The air is crisp and, although the chill of it soaks him to the bone, it refreshes him a way that the frigidness of the manor could never hope to. The cold of the manor is still and oppressive as it freezes him. The cold of the wind stirring the remnants of last night's snowfall into swirling patterns and miniature snow banks is wild and invigorating as it fills his lungs.

He shivers slightly into his coat, gloved hands shoved deep into his pockets and scarf secured snuggly around his neck. He breathes heavily in the air and watches his breath form as steam, then fall apart into nothing. He does this a few times, feeling a bit childish as he tries to make the evidence of his heat last as long as possible and reaches a hand out to grab the steam. There is no one around to see, though. He walks alone in what may be his favorite place in the entirety of the manor grounds.

He moves on from his little game, walking deeper into the tangle of frost-covered trees that flank the trail. Light from the rapidly setting sun shines through the trunks and branches, making the snow and frost glitter like gemstones. Snowblooms, one of the few species of budding flowers hardy enough to thrive in the Atlas weather, grow in clumps all throughout the garden despite never having been planted here, and he stops now to pluck one from its spot at the base of a giant evergreen. He twirls the stem in his clothed hand, and delicately fingers the white petals streaked with a rich royal blue.

The flower is considered to be a bit of a pest. A weed plant, the gardeners and landscapers call it, like dandelions. He however finds them beautiful. Strong and resilient against the harshness of the landscape and the best efforts of a legion of weedkillers and trowls. He carefully tucks it in one of his pockets, careful not to crush the bud; there are a few books in the library that he is sure no one would notice missing that he could use to press the flower in.

His boots scuff the edge of a raised stone, and he steps up onto the dais that sits in the middle of the circular clearing he has wandered into. Short benches carved from grey stone surround the centerpiece: a white marble fountain that is hardly ever running and so fills up with loosely packed snow. He rubs a coating of frost aside from a silver plaque seamlessly attached to the marble, and reads for what may be the hundredth time about how, on this very spot, his grandfather Nicholas Schnee, proposed to his grandmother Wanda Cerulean. The fountain had been a gift from Jacques and Willow on an anniversary, to commemorate the occasion. How poetic, he thinks, that the gift is exquisite and expensive, yet is unable to even function.

He moves on, unwilling to stop and sit, sure if he does he will simply freeze to the stone and be stuck until a servant is sent out to bring him back. He takes his time traipsing along the path, stopping to smell a flower here, brush a hand through a bush and knock off its snow there. He runs his hands across tree bark, imagining what it might be like to simply grab on a branch and hoist himself up to the very top, where stick-thin branches sway in the wind and look as if they are about to give and fall. He doesn't try; he knows what it would be like. He would fall.

At last, he reaches the end of the line. The path leads him to a limestone brick wall that stands 10 feet tall and at least a foot thick. The trail takes him right to an iron gate, made of thick bars kept clean of rust and tightly sealed by a lock he has never seen the key for. His fingers clench around the handle and he gives the bars a strong rattle. They do not move. They never have.

He does not know why he bothers, why every stroll he takes leads him here, why he tries the gate every single time to see if this is the one day where someone was careless and left it unlocked. There is no point. Even it was, and if it did open, he does not know what he would do about it. He does not think about what he might do because there is no point. It has never happened and most likely never will.

Still, he gives the lock one final yank before he concedes defeat and turns around, returning to a different kind of cold than the one of the garden.

 **Mother**

He is on the way back to his room, long after the sun has set and the moon has risen. His stomach is soothed with warm tea freshly brewed in the kitchens, and he is half-tempted to ask Klein to bring the rest of the kettle to his room. As far as things go, he feels almost content, and the feeling is light in his chest.

He hears a voice call his name from down the hall, and as he turns that feeling dies. Automatically his back straightens, and nerves begin to coil like a snake inside him. There's no reason he should be so tense - it's not _him_ coming down the hall to meet him - but he can't help but secretly dread these encounters.

"Whitley," she calls again, gliding towards him elegantly, her beautiful dress making the slightest _swish_ where it briefly kisses the ground. Her hair drapes down her back, shiny with evidence of a thorough brushing, and glimmering silver streaks through the natural white. She stands tall and poised as she stops in front of him, and he quells the spark that threatens to become hope.

"Yes, Mother?" He answers softly. He never knows how to act, how to speak. Who is it that stands in front of him?

"Oh, darling." A frigid hand brushes the ends of his hair and cups his cheek. "You used to call me 'Mama', don't you remember?"

He feels like sobbing. He doesn't, and he doesn't press her hand against his cheek with his own like he wants to, either. "Yes, Mother. I remember." And he does; he remembers long nights around the fireplace reading storybooks, walks through the garden on the warmer days, and late night cuddles when he woke up with nightmares about the White Fang. He remembers happier times when the graying woman in front of him was once "Mama".

But then the fighting started, and with it came the shouting and the drinking and the forgetting. Forgetting the days, forgetting his name, forgetting that she was his Mama. So he doesn't call her that anymore: he calls her Mother. Why does she remember only now? That small spark flickers in him again, but he can't bring himself to let it catch. Not again.

"Oh, my darling." She frowns sadly up at him, and although she is tall, he realizes that he has grown even taller. Why does that hurt him?

Words he never expects to hear fall out of her mouth. "I'm sorry."

He blinks, the words a punch to the gut. "Wh-what?"

"I'm so, so sorry. I've left you and Weiss and Winter all alone, haven't I, darling?" Her old name for him, something he has not been called in years, Unbidden, pinpricks of heat well up behind his eyes.

"N-no, no, Mother -" A finger to his lips halts his protests, and he can do nothing but look at her.

"You've gotten so big, darling. I've missed it all." She cups his face in her hands, and for that one moment, he almost takes the plunge. For a second of clarity that his mother has not shown in years, he almost believes that she may be back, that his Mama has finally returned.

But then she pulls him close, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head in his chest, and he can smell the alcohol on her breath and feel the shakiness in her stance. She's drunk, like she always is, except for once instead of blinding her it has opened her eyes.

It can't last, he thinks as he stands stiff in her embrace. Soon either the drink will leave her system and she will forgot, or she will chase down the stark truths with another bottle and lose the memories of tonight forever. She may know now, but she won't tomorrow. She won't be sorry tomorrow. She won't be his Mama tomorrow.

"Darling?" She rubs his back like she used to when he was sick. "Oh, please say something, darling."

His vision blurs, and without thinking, he raises his arms and grips her tight. He shakes, and she coos softly and cards her finger through his hair. The shoulder of her dress grows damp, but she says nothing about it as she clings to him just as strongly as he clings to her.

She won't remember this tomorrow, he knows. Tomorrow, she will be Mother again. Right now, though, she's Mama, and he cries.


	4. Collection 4 - Why, Nightfall

**Why**

"I said, _leave_."

"Fine, fine."

He turned to walk out the door, sensing he had needled his sister as much as she would allow before bodily tossing him out of the room, but a thought caught him. It was something he had been wondering since last night, since she had accused him of somehow planning this entire incident. Offering up this question might actually get him a physical reaction, but if she was allowed to question his motives, then the same should be true for him.

"Why do you care?"

For the first time since he had walked in the room, he saw the grip on her rapier slacken. "What?" She tried to hide it, but he could hear the confusion in her voice.

"Why do you care about being the heiress?" He elaborated. "You never have in the past; why should you start now?"

"That's not true! I have always devoted myself to the Schnee name." Her eyes narrowed. Ah, back to anger.

"Really?" He feigned interest. "That's why you have never spent an iota more of time studying business than Father required? Why you never choose to listen in on company meetings regardless of their importance? Why, instead of staying here in Atlas so you can begin learning how to run the company, you ran off to Vale to be as far away from here as possible?"

"I did not _run away_. I went to complete my training."

"Something you could very easily have done at Atlas, while still keeping up your duties as heiress."

"Beacon is -"

"Yes, yes, far more superior in producing capable Huntsmen than Atlas, I know." He had overheard the argument more than enough times. "But it is not incapable; surely Winter is proof enough."

He could see the irritation building in her stance. His sister had truly grown rusty in the art of hiding emotions. "Where I chose to study has no effect on my ability to act as the next head of the Schnee Dust Company."

He rocked back on his heels, quirking his lips in a sly smile. "Actually, dear sister, it does. Can you honestly tell me anything about how the company operates? Who's on the board of directors? Do you know what any of our policies about Dust standards? About labor management? About marketing differences across the kingdoms?" His grin grew sharp. "Do you know anything at all about running a company as large and complex as the SDC?"

He could practically see the steam venting from her ears; he choked back a laugh. When had Weiss become so easy to provoke?

"What is your point?" She ground out.

"My point is that you don't care about the SDC -" he raised a hand to cut off her opening mouth " - ah, ah, let me finish. You don't care about running the SDC; you care about becoming a huntress, because you somehow believe that doing so will fix all of Remnant's problems with our family and our power. Therefore, I'm curious as to why you care so much about Father passing the responsibility onto me."

"You _stole_ it from me!"

He blinked, then narrowed his own eyes. Oh, was _that_ the reason?

"Really." It wasn't a question. "You'll have to tell me when that was, because I certainly don't remember that happening. What _I_ remember happening is _you_ attempting to murder someone at a public gala."

"I wasn't going to -"

"If the general hadn't stepped in, could you honestly say that that Grimm wouldn't have impaled that woman?"

"I -" But for the first time, Weiss looked uncertain. Finally, he was getting through. _Finally_ , she was paying him some attention.

He pressed the advantage. "Say what you will about me and my abilities, but I have never attempted public murder. _That_ is the reason that Father made _me_ the heir. Right now, you are a PR liability. Did you know that the woman is threatening to press charges? Father is scheduled for meetings with lawyers for weeks now, making sure that you aren't arrested."

"It was an accident. She provoked me." It was a half-hearted attempt at best. Her free hand was rubbing her sword arm, as if trying to warm herself.

"She wasn't even talking to you." He said coldly. "Yes, what she said was very insensitive, especially considering you were actually at Beacon, but that doesn't excuse such extreme action."

He wouldn't lie; it was very much satisfying to watch his sister finally seem to realize that her actions had consequences.

"You brought this on yourself. If you had kept your head, just let the drunk woman run her mouth and ignored her, you would most likely still be the heiress, and then, you wouldn't be stuck here." A twist of a smirk that he couldn't quite keep down. "But don't worry. I've been stuck here all my life. It's not so bad, once you get used to the fact that there's no pleasant company to be had."

That got her attention. "Whitley -"

He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, wait. You're already planning your escape, aren't you? Well, then ignore me. You'll be gone before the week's end. Just do try to warn me before you leave, so I can lock my doors when Father flies into his inevitable rage."

"He - He's not that bad." She said feebly, looking at him with something he couldn't quite identify in her eyes. _The knife had met its mark._

"Well, no, he wasn't, not when you left." _And, twist_. "But you've been gone, _dear sister_ , and things don't just _stop_ when you leave."

Unconsciously, a hand made its way to his stomach, brushing tender ribs, imagining the sickly yellow and green that stained his skin beneath his clothes. The hand behind his back clenched into a fist, and he didn't bother to try to hide the anger he felt churning in his chest as he glared at the marble floor.

"Did you really think that he would just brush off all your snubs? That he would be content to just wait by the phone for a call that would never come? That with every call you ignored he would just let it go?"

He was practically snarling the words under his breath. He hadn't expected to say any of this when he had come to gloat over the fact that she was getting a taste of what he had gone through, but it was far too late to stop himself now.

"Our father is a proud man, a controlling one. He does not forgive injuries to his ego, no matter how small or who from. You were _gone_. Who do you think took your place?"

He lifted his gaze to meet his sister's. "You asked why I hate you. I don't; I've never hated you. What I hate is that you think you can do whatever you'd like, and that there aren't consequences. That nothing comes of ignoring your responsibilities, of angering Father and then running away from the fallout. There are _always_ consequences, and now that you are finally feeling the repercussions of _your actions_ , you dare blame me?"

He didn't give her the opportunity to speak. "But I should be thanking you. You forced Father to pass the reins over to me. Now, maybe I'll be able to leave the house every once in a while. Maybe Father will actually notice that I like business, that I'm good at it. Maybe I'll be allowed to go to a school myself. I've always been interested in the business courses at Atlas."

 _And if I'm allowed in public, then maybe Father will not be able to visibly injure me._

"But what am I doing? Father is waiting, and you were training." He turned swiftly on his heel. "Goodbye, sister."

"Whitley, wait!"

But this time, it was his turn to leave her behind. He took a petty satisfaction in slamming the door in her face.

 **Nightfall**

This is easily the worst part of his day.

The sun is beginning to set, and all life in the manor begins to die with it. The window shutters are closed and the curtains are drawn, the lights are turned down low, and shadows begin to coat the floors and cling to the walls. The maids and the cooks and the gardeners begin to retreat from the house as they go back to their own homes. The live-in staff inquire if anything is needed, then quickly perform their last minute duties before secluding themselves in their rooms. His father is in his study or his bedroom, and his sisters are gone. The halls fall dark and silent, and the only ones left are him . . . and his mother.

He walks silently through the manor, eyes scanning for any hint of where she may be tonight. The best-case scenario, her bedroom, is his first stop, but just as it is most nights, she's not there. So as he does most nights, he takes it upon himself to find her latest haunting ground. The dining hall is empty, as is the foyer, and he has enough faith in the staff that she would not have been left in the garden for the night. A quick traipse to the library reveals no one lurking between its shelves, and the dust in Weiss's music room is utterly undisturbed.

He must search for nearly an hour, growing ever more concerned as he does so, before he catches a hint of sound from a out-of-the way stairwell in the old part of the house. He climbs the narrow and rickety stairs, and sees fresh tracks on the dust-covered stair treads. A good sign, definitely the most promising he's seen all night. At the top of the stairs is an old wooden door that he has rarely visited. This is the entrance to the attic, an area of the house so out of the way of everything else that it has been nearly forgotten. Or at least, that is what he had thought. The fact that the door is cracked and a light has been turned on inside says that he is not the only one that remembered the room exists.

He slowly pushes the door open, flinching at the creak of the hinges as he peers inside the room.

It's a disaster; boxes are flung all over the room, their contents spilling out onto every surface. Storage closets line the walls, and every single one of them has its doors open and clothing strewn in piles on the floor. A bottle of wine has been smashed on the floor, but hardly a drop of alcohol had been left inside to stain the floorboards. Chests and trunks are scattered around the narrow space, and their lids all show signs of being thrown open with considerable force. It's a veritable war zone of clothing and trinkets, and in the middle of it all sits his mother, clutching something long and white in her lap as she sobs into it.

He winces. He was hoping that she would be at least somewhat willing to come with him; she may rarely ever be conscious of who he was, but most nights she was coherent enough to be guided back to her room. Not like this, though. When she was weepy like this, she was more stubborn then his sisters.

Carefully, he picks his way through the rubble of Mother's rampage and comes to kneel in front of her.

"Mother?" He whispers. She doesn't even flinch at his call.

He tries again. "Willow?"

Her breath hitches as she sobs, and she turns red-rimmed eyes to him.

"Are you alright?" He asks softly.

She shakes her head as she grips the white item strong enough to tear in her grip. "I don't want to do it anymore."

"Do what?" He plays along. He's found that to be the best way to handle these nights.

"Can't you call it off, Papa?" She cries, wringing the fabric tightly in her fists. He takes a closer look, and finally realizes what it is that she is holding. It's a wedding dress.

"I don't want to marry him anymore. It's -" she hiccups, "- it's going to be awful."

He doesn't know what to say. This - this has never happened before.

"Mo-, Willow," He begins.

"Papa, please." She cries, believing that the one in front of her is her father, not her son. "He's a horrible man, I just know it! If we get married, then - then -" She breaks off, overwhelmed, and goes back to sobbing into the dress.

He doesn't know what to do. She's never done this before; never taken him for someone other than a stranger, never talked about her wedding like this. He's shaking, he notices, and he's half-tempted to just stand up and run away from here. Let his mother lock herself away with the dress and the memories and the keepsakes from another life. Let someone else find her and deal with it.

But he can't do that. He knows he can't.

"Alright," he tells her. Her sniffling halts, and she looks pleadingly at him.

"Wh-what?"

"You don't have to marry him. I'll stop him; I promise." The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, and it makes it all the worse to see the hope in his mother's glazed eyes.

"Really? You'd do that, Papa?"

Heat is building behind his eyes, and he blinks it away. He can't show weakness; he will not become his mother.

"Of course, Mo-Willow. Anything for you."

She lunges forward, dripping the dress in her lap and enveloping him in a hug. "Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you!" Her voice cracks, and he can hear the desperate relief at the idea of avoiding his father, at the thought of not being confined to her fate.

He does not hug her, can not bring himself to return the affection that isn't meant for him and is brought on by a lie.

Instead he pats her back, and rises out of her arms to stand. "Come on. Come back to your room. I'll tell Fa-Jacques that the wedding is off."

She stands readily, already brushing away the tears, eager to move on. She takes his offered hand, and teeters drunkenly after him like a clumsy puppy as he leads her down the stairs, through the silent halls of the manor, and into her bedroom.

She collapses on her bed, not bothering to try to change into less formal wear, instead falling into a peacefully slumber. He pulls the comforter up, picks up the bottles on the floor and throws them in the trash, and closes the door silently.

This is easily the worst part of his day.


End file.
